Twelve
by JackOwens1860
Summary: A series of one-shots centred around Dick Grayson at twelve, prior to events described in Robin Year One and my own continuation of that tome, Details. THIS CHAPTER – Bruce arrives home to find Dick has a friend over unannounced. He finds he is surprisingly more accommodating of this guest than expected. Father-son bonding ensues. Bruce's POV
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: Part of the new story series I am developing called** _ **Twelve**_ **. Essentially it will comprise of a series of one-shots centred around Dick Grayson at twelve, prior to events described in Robin Year One and my own continuation of that tome, Details. Set for an initial four chapter run, depending on feedback. See what you think.**

 **THIS CHAPTER – Bruce arrives home to find Dick has a friend over unannounced. He finds he is surprisingly more accommodating of this guest than expected. Father-son bonding ensues.**

 **Enjoy.**

 **Fort Grayson**

I drive myself home from the office today. Alfred has apparently been…unavailable. It used to mean trouble when I could not reach him at home. Fortunately, these days, it does not mean he has taken a fall down the stairs or off a ladder. If the old man is unavailable, he is entertaining the boy. I imagine It is almost as bad. I keep a car at the office for just such occasions, as a precaution only. Once I am home, I enter the house from the garage. As I walk down the corridor of the East Wing, I hear the unmistakable sound of laughter echoing from the ballroom. Dick is sliding around the floor in his socks again since it is Friday and Alfred has waxed it. At present, it is one of his favourite and most dangerous activities, a frightening thing when considering we take down criminals together on a nightly basis. Last week he skidded head-first into one of the walls and knocked himself unconscious for three minutes. The week before, he almost tumbled through one of the windows. Alfred and I are growing tired of telling him not to. I decide to tell him once and all that the ballroom is off-limits for 'sock-skating' as he calls it. However, when I arrive at the entrance, I find he is not alone.

Sliding across the floor with him is another boy. He is slightly shorter than Dick, but by no more than an inch. He has ginger hair, an abundance of freckles and, judging from his posture, is not athletically inclined. He is bent over at the waist as he skids across the floor, his hands spread and hovering just above the ground in anticipation of having to break his fall. A moment later, he does just that and collapses on his stomach, giggling. Dick circles him once and then jumps on top of him. They begin to wrestle, both in hysterics. I audibly clear my throat. The laughter dies abruptly. Dick and his companion scramble to their feet, and almost fall flat on their faces again, after finding me in the door. I manage to suppress an amused smile. The ginger-haired boy gawps at me whilst the one I regrettably own flashes me a sheepish grin.

"Hey Bruce. How was work?"

"What are you doing in here?"

"I was…uh…"

"This is a ballroom. It is for dancing and for dancing only. Were you and your friend dancing in here, Dick?"

"Well…we were kinda…"

"The answer is 'no'. You weren't dancing. You were sock skating. It stops. Now. The ballroom is off-limits for anybody under the age of sixteen. Understand?" I tell him sternly. His smile disappears, replaced by a stuck-out bottom lip and an obedient nod. It is enough. I nod in reply. "Good. Now," I say beckoning both of them over with a crooked finger, "introductions." They move out of the ballroom and into the hallway. The ginger-haired youth looked skittish as he gazes up at me, putting me in mind of a startled deer. It is oddly sweet. Children are not usually afraid of me, even when in costume. I smile at him. He nervously smiles back. His eyes are hazel-green. They are quite captivating and show clear intelligence. It is a positive sign. "And who might you be, young man?"

"I'm…I'm Howie, Sir. Howie Finke. Please to meet you." He says extending his hand before correcting himself, " _pleased_ to meet you, I mean. I do speak English, Mr Wayne, honestly." He assures me whilst leaving his hand out. I nod in agreement.

"I believe you. However, children do not address me as 'Sir' or 'Mr Wayne'. If you really wish to prove you speak the language, please call me Bruce." I reply shaking his hand, "This means it's a deal, Howie. A good one." His smile relaxes to mirror the sudden lack of tension in his body language. He nods back.

"Okay…Bruce." They all find it strange, to address me by my first name. I think it is only fair. I do not care for such formal etiquette from children. They put up with enough as it is. I release his hand and pat him genially on the shoulder.

"Good boy. Now, I am certain you can find other things to do here. Dick, why don't you show Howie the swimming pool or the gymnasium?" Dick visibly considers these options before shrugging.

"Can I take him to the fort?" He asks. The boy wanted a fort in the woods at the rear of the manor grounds. As a reward for good grades at school, I helped him design and build such a structure only last month. Instead of the bare minimum he likely expected, we built a two-tier structure more akin to what is found in military observation post than a child's fort. It has four rooms, stands ten feet tall and is made of solid wood. It is covered in camouflage netting and even has a protected sniper's nest just under the roof. Admittedly, I got somewhat carried away with construction. Alfred labelled it a 'monstrosity'. Dick called it 'super badass'. Needless to say, I sided with the boy.

"Is he staying for dinner?" I ask him. Dick gifts me a encouraged smile.

"I was hoping so. Is that okay?"

"Certainly. By all means go play in your fort. Just remember to be at the table by seven."

"Okay. See you later, big man!" Dick takes Howie by the wrist and drags both of them off down the hallway as fast as his legs will go. I cup my hands around my mouth.

"Wear shoes!" I call before getting a faint affirmative reply as they vanish from view. Huh. For a brief moment, I was a parent, instead of a guardian. It was…a satisfying experience. I seek out Alfred and find him in the kitchen, already working on this evening's dinner. It smells like chicken. He does not look up from his pan as I approach.

"Good afternoon, Master Bruce. Apologies for not collecting you. I was…preoccupied."

"So, I saw. When did I agree for Dick to have a schoolfriend over?" I inquire leaning on the breakfast island behind him. The old man shrugs whilst continuing to stir.

"You did not, Sir. It was a spur of the moment decision from all parties present. Mr Finke's parents were more than happy for him to play over, Master Dick was enthused about the idea and I took the risk that you would also have no issue with another boy cavorting around the estate." He stops stirring, lowers the heat and turns his head. "Should I tell the Finkes to collect their son, Master Bruce?" I narrow my eyes at his suggestive tone.

"I am not the grouch you seem to think I am, Alfred. Besides, after all the times we have allowed other parents to care for the boy at their homes, it is only fair we cater for one here." The old man nods in a mixture of agreement and satisfaction before resuming his duties.

"Well said, Sir. Have they gone to 'Fort Grayson' for the foreseeable future?" He asks turning the heat back up. I smile and push off the countertop.

"Is that what he's calling it?"

"It is rather apt. I cannot think of a more stereotypical boy's fantasy than to be in charge of his own castle…or observation post."

"He likes it, especially the military aspect of it. They can pretend to be on manoeuvres or operations as much as they like. We did procure those replica firearms for him? The wooden models?"

"Yes, Sir, and the children's fatigues. They are all in the fort. I am certain they will have to be torn away for dinner." He does not sound pleased with my choices. It thinks it is encouraging violence instead of creativity in the boy. He believes there is enough war on Gotham's streets without fostering the warrior mentality at home. But military clothing and equipment is not all there is in the fort. I sigh.

"There are other toys, Alfred. Other costumes for them to wear if they choose. We left several boxes of goblin, wizard and whatever else qualifies as a Halloween outfit there, did we not? Plenty of paper and colouring pencils? Playing cards and the like?" The old man takes his turn and sighs.

"Boys will be boys, Master Bruce?"

"If they wish to play soldiers, we should let them. If they wish to be cops and robbers, we should let them. We foster no creativity by stifling them." I hear him scoff.

"Sometimes I think you genuinely believe you have more parenting experience than me, Sir." He says. I grin, knowing he cannot see it on my face.

"No, old friend. It is just I was a boy more recently than you were. Contrary to what you may believe, I was twelve years old once as well. Regardless of my attitudes at the time, I did relish the chance to play someone else other than myself." I tell him. He audibly smirks.

"A habit you have maintained into your adulthood. Will you be 'dressing-up' tonight, Sir?"

"Only for dinner. I do not need to go out into the city tonight. I would like to enjoy the company."

"You know, I do believe that boy is having an effect on you." Alfred remarks. I shove my hands into my pockets.

"In what sense?"

"I do not need to look to know you are smiling at present. It used to be a rarity in this house. Now you do it almost every time you see him. That is what we call progress, young man, excellent progress." Alfred answers with a perception of his surroundings and the people in it that never ceases to surprise me. He is, of course, absolutely right in what he says. The boy's presence is a delight, sock skating incidents excluded.

"Hnn. I will be in my father's study if you need me, Alfred." I say turning my back and beginning the long journey upstairs.

"Of course, Master Bruce. I will call you when dinner is ready."

Two hours later finds me at the head of the dinner table, flanked by two twelve-year-old boys. Dick has not stopped talking about what they have been doing in the fort since the starter, some twenty minutes ago. He speaks of playing soldiers, robots, astronauts and half-a-dozen other things that mean absolutely nothing to me. His breathless and energetic recounting of fictitious wars and battles for distant planets is entertaining and often very well told. However, it is quite obvious he is dominating the conversation and reducing his friend to a mute. One hand held up is enough of a visual cue to render him silent. He learns quickly.

"So, what do your parents do for a living, Howie?" I ask once I am sure Dick will not interrupt. The ginger-haired boy shrugs.

"My mom's a dental receptionist and my dad's…between jobs. He used to be an electrician." He tells me. His father is unemployed at present. I imagine his home situation is tough. There is no need to pry further though. I nod.

"I see. Any siblings at home?"

"I've got an older brother. He's twenty-three and lives in Oregon."

"Oh? Why so far away?"

"He's married. Got a kid. He likes it there. I'd like to go visit him sometime in the summer."

I learn a lot about this new boy very quickly. Once he has recognised I am just a man and not some celebrity, Howie talks almost as much as Dick. Instead of sentences, there are paragraphs of speech. It makes me wonder how either of them have an actual conversation with the other when both are on constant send. Nevertheless, it is nice to learn more of Dick's social circle. Howie and Dick met on the boy's first day at Bristol Middle School and have been friends ever since. Howie is not an athlete or much of a scholar by his own admission, his GPA resting at 2.5 throughout his school career. I tell him some of the best and most creative minds in history did not perform particularly well in education. I also tell him there is little wrong with being average. It does not curtail opportunities or make life any less special. He asks how I can say that when I am a billionaire and Dick is a world-class circus performer. It is a fair point. I tell him either of us would trade our wealth and talents in an instant if it meant another day with our parents, a deal he does not have to make. I ensure I do not dwell on this point for too long and immediately change the subject to hobbies, which carries us through dessert.

"When do your parents expect you home this evening, Howie?" I ask when Alfred is clearing away the last of the plates and cutlery.

"Can Howie and me have a sleepover tonight? Please?" Dick asks in reply. I shoot him a hard stare, but not for the request. The boy rolls his eyes and corrects himself. "Sorry. Can Howie and _I_ have a sleepover tonight?" Good grammar is important. Alfred prides himself on it, as do I. I consider.

"Would that be alright with your parents, Howie?" I inquire turning to our freckled guest. He nods.

"Yeah. They'd like a bit of peace and quiet."

"Yeah, and he can borrow some spare jammies, toothbrush, clean underwear, whatever he needs. Right?" Dick chimes in, his voice and his eyes clearly desperate and excited for this arrangement to happen. Again, Alfred and I have farmed the boy off to other houses for sleepovers before. It allows me to get work done without interruption, either in the cave or on the streets. We should extend the courtesy in return. I nod.

"Alright, he can stay the night, as long as I can call his parents and check this is acceptable for them. Understand?" I jump when Dick suddenly lunges over the table top to hug me in what I assume is a spontaneous display of gratitude. I look at Howie. "Do you act this way with your parents?" I ask him. The freckled boy smirks.

"Only if they gave me a pony or something. You know he almost did the exactly same thing to me when I gave him my pudding cup at lunch today?" He explains as Dick persists in crushing my ribcage as best he can. I raise an eyebrow.

"Really? Dick, get off. Now." The boy lets me go immediately and holds his hands up in apology. The grin on his face is so wide it threatens to fall off the sides of his head.

"Thank you so much. I love you forever. Can we be excused from the table now, please?" I will not detain them any longer. I nod.

"Yes. Come back down in half-an-hour. By then I will have spoken with Howie's parents."

"We're not going upstairs: we're going back to the fort!" He exclaims whilst ushering for Howie to stand up with him. I hold a hand out to stop anyone leaving prematurely. They sit.

"No, you are not. It is too late to play outside. Both the gardens and the ballroom are off limits. Everything else is fine." The boy's shoulders sag. He rolls his eyes and sighs.

"Aw, come on..."

"Don't push your luck here. You have engineered a very good deal. I have agreed. Negotiations are over. He stays over, provided his parents consent and you behave yourself. That means obeying my rules. Why do you obey my rules, Dick?" I ask with more authority than I would like to project to our guest. I do not wish to play spoiler here, but there are limits to my generosity he must learn. We may not be in the cave or on the streets, but I have still standards he must meet. He sighs again, but gives the right response.

"Because...this is _your_ house, Bruce."

"Good boy. Now, off you go."

The phone call to the Finkes proves to be a courtesy rather than anything else. They are more than happy to have their son stay over tonight. They ask if he is enjoying himself or causing me trouble. I glibly answer the only one who ever causes me trouble is Dick. They laugh at that and I find myself smiling in return. I am keenly aware of settling into a parent role and relishing the prospect in a way I once thought an impossibility. It is a welcome surprise. We arrange to drop Howie off around lunchtime tomorrow and part on very amicable terms. The boys return to the living room some ten minutes later. Both are wet and huddled inside towels. Evidently they have been making good use of the swimming pool.

"They said 'yes'. I want you both upstairs by nine. You can stay up until midnight. No later. There has to be some actual sleep for this to qualify as a 'sleepover'. If you want any snacks, ask Alfred within the hour. He is not a twenty-four kitchen service. Understand?" Both children nod excitedly. I glance at my wristwatch; it is close to eight-thirty already. I consider. "If you both go upstairs, shower and get into pyjamas now, there will still be time for ice-cream. I believe Alfred has the cookie dough variety freshly stocked. Hot fudge too." Dick again grabs his companion by the wrist and pulls him up the grand staircase with startling speed. I will have to hope he does not accidentally yank the poor boy's arm off in his excitement. Once they have disappeared from view, I wander through to the kitchen where the old man is just putting away the last of the dried crockery.

"Ice cream, old friend?" I inquire. Alfred closes the cupboard. When he turns, he does not look warm to the idea.

"More sugar? Sir, they just had trifle barely forty minutes ago." He says rolling down his shirt sleeves. I smirk.

"And you accuse me of being a grouch?" I retort. The old man rolls his eyes as he re-cuffs one sleeve with consummate ease.

"I would rather they were not up all night." He counters. Suddenly his other sleeve is fastened again and he is taking off his apron. He is remarkably fast. I am not willing to concede just yet though.

"Neither of them are hyperactive..." I say before reconsidering my statement, "Dick is very energetic, but it is not the product of an overly sugary diet. You have ensured that admirably. They will be fine. This is his first sleepover in his new home. It deserves to be special." This gambit strikes a chord with him. He adopts an understanding smile whilst slipping on his tailcoat.

"Of course, Master Bruce. I presume they expect hot fudge?" He asks buttoning it. I incline my head.

"If you would be so kind."

"Would you care for some ice cream as well, Sir?"

"No. I am watching my figure." I say patting my stomach. The old man narrows his eyes.

"You are aware your bodyfat is barely four percent most days, aren't you, Master Bruce? You may indulge your sweet tooth if you wish."

"I had some trifle, didn't I? Consider my sweet tooth indulged. Please see to the boys. I am going to the library." I say whilst turning my back to leave.

It is almost two a.m. I have been working in the cave since shortly after ten. I am currently stocktaking utility belt ancillaries for a bulk resupply sometime in the spring. The task is monotonous in nature, but is something I am loathe to have Alfred do in addition to his other duties. He has enough to deal with, especially now the boy is a constant fixture in our lives. Anything below ground is my responsibility to contend with. It is an arrangement that suits us both. As I finish counting the smoke grenades, fifteen cartons totalling one-hundred-and-eighty canisters, I become aware of another presence in the cave.

"I trust Howie is asleep?" I ask my unexpected visitor.

"He sleeps like the dead. Must be nice." Dick responds from close behind me. This is not an encouraging note to begin our conversation. I turn slowly. His pyjamas are visibly damp. His face has an unsettling sheen to it in the artificial lights. He has been having nightmares again. At present, they are far and few between. However, the timing could be better. I nod in agreement.

"Yes, I imagine so. Why did you not simply shower and change? Were you afraid of waking Howie?" I ask. He shrugs.

"I don't want him knowing. He'd only feel bad. You know, we've had an awesome time tonight. I didn't want to ruin that good feeling by showing him..." He indicates no part of himself in particular, "this."

"I see. Shall we go upstairs and resolve this situation?" I inquire moving over to where he's currently leaning on the command chair arm. He shakes his head.

"I'm not ready to sleep yet."

"Well, being perfectly frank, Dick, you cannot remain down here. Your absence will be somewhat suspicious if your friend should awake prematurely. But, I'm done with my inventory for the time being. Let's both go upstairs to the house and sit awhile." I say putting a hand on his shoulder in a manner I hope is comforting. He gifts me an appreciative smile.

"Yeah, sure."

Dick takes a brief shower in the bathroom adjacent from my own room. Since he is unwilling to back into his bedroom to retrieve fresh pyjamas in case he wakes Howie, despite his earlier claim the boy is a sound sleeper, I lend him my dressing gown to wear for the time being. The sash goes almost twice around his waist, such is its svelte shape and condition. I would judge it to barely be over twenty inches in size. We sit in the chairs next to the window of my bedroom. I have prepared him a mug of warm milk which he is happy to sip at as we stare at the view.

"Thanks for letting Howie sleep over, Bruce. I wasn't sure you'd go for it." The boy tells me taking another sip of his drink. He cups the mug with both hands and seems to be using it primarily to warm his hands. I return to the window's vista.

"I would not be acting in your best interests if I said 'no'. He seems like a nice boy."

"He is. I know he's not the smartest guy or whatever, but I really like him."

"You may tell him he is welcome anytime."

"Thanks. Hey, can I sit in your lap?"

"If you wish. So long as you don't make a habit out of such actions. You are almost thirteen." The boy almost gleefully gets to his feet, sets his mug down on the small table between us, and then takes up residence in my lap. I cup my hands together just below his midriff, mindful they do not drop any further in his current state of undress. He reacts to this by slouching back against my chest. When he is comfortable, we resume looking out the window.

"What did he think of Fort Grayson?" I ask. He grins.

"Oh, he freaking loved it. He was really impressed when I said you and me...you and I built it together. He thought for sure you've have workmen in for that kind of thing, not get down and dirty. If only he knew how much work you do with your hands every night, huh?"

"Let us keep that a private matter. If you like, you may have other friends over to stay the night. Despite the size of the house however, we will cap that number at four. This is a home, not a funhouse."

"I got ya. Hey, can we build other stuff together?"

"What did you have in mind?" I ask firming my grip on him slightly as he shifts in place. The boy shrugs.

"I don't know yet. It doesn't matter really, so long as we can do it together." I did not expect to incite these sort of affections in a child, even one as emotional as Dick. Regardless of his dedication to training and my crusade on Gotham's streets, I still find myself surprised by his love for me as Bruce Wayne and not simply as Batman. I believed my job as his guardian was adequate and nothing more. Clearly he does not feel the same. Perhaps I give myself too little credit. Perhaps he gives me too much. Either way, the threat of this relationship evolving past that of friends into that of family no longer scares me. In fact, I feel I would welcome it. I smile.

"I enjoy spending time with you as well. Think about it and get back to me. We'll see what can be done." We fall into another comfortable silence. Dick no longer feels the need to talk incessantly to fill the void. It is a sign of relaxation from him, a good one. Five minutes pass.

"You like your trifle?" He asks me. So, he noticed.

"I did, thank you."

"First time eating it in what, like ten years for you?"

"Almost fourteen. I last had it at boarding school in Berne."

"Do you not miss eating desserts? I mean, you watch me stuff my face with brownies and ice cream every time we have dinner. Do you never feel like giving yourself a little leeway with the whole diet plan thing?"

"I am almost forced to eat desserts at every gala and function I attend as a socialite, businessman and philanthropist. Believe me, not having to eat one is my idea of a treat." I tell him honestly. He shifts his weight again so he is essentially riding side-saddle. From this position, he can look me in the eye in posing his next question.

"So why'd you break it tonight?"

"Because I wished to appear normal in front of our guest."

"So, you took a sugary bullet...to make a good impression on Howie?" He checks with an obvious sense of pride at my sacrifice. I pat him sparingly on the back.

"Of course. I would not want to discourage your schoolfriends from visiting during appropriate hours. Peer interaction is good for you. I see that."

"You know I never expected to be treated like this by you?"

"Like what?"

"I thought, after all the training and discipline and all, we'd be all professional and junk. Say 'hello' in the morning, you know, do our own thing during the day and then get together at night, for patrol and crimefighting stuff, but nothing else. I really thought Alfie would do all the dad stuff. I thought he'd do all the bonding. Just because...you're not exactly the warmest guy I've ever met. But, after the fort building and the letting Howie sleep over without any notice and, I mean, _sitting_ in your lap? And this is _after_ lending me your big-ass robe to spare my blushes after a trip to nightmare city?" He shakes his head in disbelief. "I can't believe I found someone like you. I thought after my parents, I thought they couldn't be substituted without it making me all sad. But I was wrong." He says with large and surprisingly fragile-looking eyes. This is a big admission for him it seems. I rub his back supportively.

"You don't need to say more, Dick. I am...very grateful for such kind words. I do believe it is about time for you to go to bed. You can return my dressing gown in the morning, alright?" I say whilst stealthily pushing him off my lap. He accepts it and slides off of his own accord. He nods.

"Kay. Are you going to come to breakfast tomorrow?" He asks as I stand and guide him towards the bedroom door. I nod.

"Yes, of course. I look forward to it." We reach the doorway and Dick steps through it and pauses. He looks back at me.

"Look, what I meant earlier was that, I didn't think I'd have a dad again, not this soon after. So, thank you. Thanks for being my dad." He tells me with a satisfied nod at his abridged version of our conversation. I nod in reply, knowing any grander gesture on my part will only seem awkward by comparison. We have taken big steps towards being parent and child in recent months, but we would both be kidding ourselves if entertaining any thoughts we had fully mastered the dynamic. Time will tell. I squeeze his shoulder gently.

"Thank you for having me as your dad. It means...a great deal to me. Goodnight Dick."

"Night Bruce."


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: This is a little darker than the last instalment, because this is Batman. Told from Dick's POV. The twelve-year-old does something stupid to cover for something more serious. Bruce takes him to therapy, reluctantly, with Leslie. Things are never easy, especially when it comes to living with Bruce Wayne and your own demons.**

 **Enjoy.**

 **Twelve**

 **Caged**

 **Dick**

I'm good, but I'm not. It's hard to describe, but when I think I'm okay, mentally speaking, sometimes I'm just kidding myself. And I hate it. It never used to be like this. In what now seems like a long time ago, I know I was fine all the time. Back when I was whole...when I had parents. And now things are different. I'm still me. I'm still Richard John Grayson. But...not the one I should've been right now. And that's why I do stupid stuff sometimes. Like just now. I was awake in bed, thinking about the last time I saw my mom's face. And it was all...glassy eyes and blood. Like, all I remember were her eyes and all the blood. I remember it as a lake, even though it wasn't. And, because it wouldn't go away, I thought it was a good idea to punch the wall as hard as I could.

I thought, maybe the sudden pain would push the glassy eyes and blood lake out my head. And it worked. For like ten seconds. Then the images came back and I had a hand that felt numb in a bad way. I know I should go to Alfie straight away and get him to patch me before it really goes south. But I decide to go to back to sleep, kind of cradling it, and hoping it's not too rough in the morning.

When I wake up, I can flex my fingers, but my hand is a bit purple. I also think it might be swollen. I think about faking illness so I can try and get it all under control before anyone notices, but know it's a dumb idea. Alfie will suss me out in a heartbeat. As soon as I go downstairs and put my hand on the kitchen counter, the old guy looks crestfallen. I've done stupid stuff before. The last time it happened, I promised him I'd tell him before I did anything dumb. Now I feel awful because, even though I've only hurt myself, I've hurt him too.

He looks at my hand in silence for a while. He turns it over by rotating my wrist. He sighs.

"It should be fine in a week or two. However, writing with it in this condition is ill-advised. As is anything of a more...extra-curricular nature." He says, trying to lift his own spirits along with mine. I look at him sheepishly.

"I'm really sorry, Alfie. I didn't mean to...be a moron." He snorts at this before half-cradling me against his side. When he pats and then rubs my back through my pyjama top, I feel better.

"I know you didn't, young man. I know you didn't. Still," He crouches down in front of me and puts a hand on the side of my head, getting a palmful of ear, cheek and hair for his troubles. "I must again suggest getting Doctor Thompkins to put you on a regimen of anti-anxiety medication. And some counselling sessions, just to smooth things. This cannot continue like this unchecked. You know that, yes?" I nod my head.

"Do we have to tell Bruce?"

"We can make up an excuse if you wish, but I imagine he will realise the truth if given more than five seconds to examine your injury. You are not the only one who has punched a wall in anger." I can see the Boss-man doing stupid stuff as a kid. We were in the same orphan boat after all. Plus, that whole World's Greatest Detective thing he has going on 24/7 doesn't hurt either. I scratch my arm.

"Alright. Patch me up, please?"

By the time I'm sat down at breakfast, Alfie's given me some ice treatment, anti-inflammatories and wrapped my hand up for good measure. Bruce is at the table now, already dressed for corporate fun and games. He's having his usual ten egg-white omelette and half-an-avocado, while I'm having a huge bowl of coco pops. I'm trying to eat with my left hand and screwing it up royally as my right hides under the table.

"What's wrong with your hand, Dick?" He asks without looking up from his paper. I sigh.

"I kind of...broke it this morning?" His eyes shoot up so fast they make me jump. He puts the newspaper to one side and puts his hands across the table.

"May I see?" I slowly pull my hand from my lap and slide it over to him. It still freaks me out. His hands are so big and do so much damage to people's faces on the street. And yet, they can be so gentle when he wants them to be. He's careful in holding it, like it's an injured bird, and not some idiot kid's purple balloon hand. His eyes are blank.

"That's...disappointing. I had wanted you to go on patrol with me this evening." He says before patting my forearm absently. "Never mind. I suppose you can go socialise with your friends now instead." He lets my hand go and returns to his paper. "Has Alfred suggested Doctor Thompkins again?" He asks me almost dismissively. I don't think he wants me to go down that route. I think he wants me to tough it out...like he did.

"Yeah. I'm thinking...maybe I'll give it a shot?"

"Medication or therapy?"

"Both."

He looks up from his paper again. This time, he folds it in half and takes it off the table. He adjusts the knot of his tie. He doesn't like this conversation. The tie-thing is a dead giveaway. "I see. When would you like to begin these regimes? I will make sure all necessary arrangements are made in the meantime."

"When...do you think I should?"

"Whenever you feel up to it. The medication is something of a formality since its effects would not be apparent for some time. It is more about the counselling sessions. They could prove...challenging."

"Don't you want me to go?" I ask him seriously. He clears his throat and adjust his tie again. He's really not liking this. After Howie staying over, I thought he was all cool about being a parent-type. This proves he isn't feeling it when it counts. I need him to be here, but he isn't, not really.

"I want you to be happy. If you think that means medication and therapy of some description, I will support you."

"Bruce, I'm punching walls to try and keep images of my parents'…" I catch myself before I go too far and tell him too much. There are brains in the memories. They're really, unnaturally pink in my head. I feel like hurling whenever I look at strawberry ice cream. It's that shade of pink. Even though I know they weren't and couldn't be that colour, I can't shake it.

"I... never took the help offered to me in the wake of my parents' murders, Dick. I never accepted medication or grief counselling for my...obvious issues. There's..." He looks away and taps the table top with his finger. That's a new one. I don't know what that one means. "You don't need to suffer like I did to be successful." He brings his entire hand down on the table and looks back at me. "Not a boy like you. Let's schedule something for this afternoon. I'm certain Leslie will be pleased with your decision."

"Will you take me?"

"I have an important meeting this afternoon. But Alfred will be more than happy to..."

"Alfie didn't sign a bunch of forms and attend a load of court hearings to get me here. You did." I tell him. I sound a bit sharp with him, but he deserves it. Every time I need him for something that actually amounts to real parenting, something beyond bedtimes and sleepovers and a new shirt, he bails on me. Every time. The only time he ever really spends with me is on the streets or in the cave. I don't say anything else. He should know what I mean. He should get it. He clears his throat again.

"Perhaps I could...take you tomorrow afternoon."

"But I want to go today." I wave my ugly hand at him. "Did you ever do stuff this stupid when you were imagining your parents' brains all over your lap?" I see him visibly, noticeably stiffen at this. That's a nerve. I've struck an actual nerve, beneath the thickest skin possible. His hand is moving for that tie-knot again. Then it reverses course and settles back on the table.

"No. I did things far worse." He says in a voice that people deliver eulogies at gravesides with. I should know. He bridges his hands together and sighs. "You're right. We shouldn't delay treatment for something as inconsequential as a business meeting. This sort of behaviour...only leads to ruin." He looks me dead in the eye, "I'll take you immediately after school. I will call Leslie now and leave work early. You have my word."

School sucks. Everyone asks what I've done to my hand, what the other guy looks like. I can't write anything in class beyond preschool squiggles with my left hand, so Howie has to take notes for me. I wouldn't mind if I hadn't brought this on myself. If I'd busted it hitting a bad guy to save someone's life, this would all be chill. But I didn't, and it isn't. The only good part of the day is gym. I have to talk Coach Smalton's ear off to get him to put me in competition, but he does. Track is my saviour for crappy days. Nobody runs a lap faster than me. Nobody even comes close. As soon as I take my place on the starting line for a fifteen-hundred-metre shakeout, I know I've got this.

No glassy eyes. No lake of blood. No strawberry ice cream brains. No stupid stuff at all. I run those laps of the track like a demon, like I'm chasing Bruce in training. For such a big guy, he can sure run fast. He could smoke this distance in less than six, and that's wearing the batsuit. Today, I manage sub-six too. I lap a least a dozen people on my way to victory. It is a good feeling. A really good feeling. The only hard part is stopping. As soon as I do, I realise track can't fix everything that's broken. I'm feeling bad afterwards until I get outside the gates. I don't believe it. There he is. Bruce Wayne, waiting on me.

It takes a couple of minutes for me to get through the sea of parents mobbing him, but as soon as I do, I latch around his waist. He kept his promise. He didn't send Alfie with his lame-ass apologies or flake on me by not showing up at all. He still isn't great being hugged. He kind of freezes in place, then, I guess realising he's in what equates to a public viewing gallery, the big man pats my head like a kid would a goat at a petting zoo. It's funny enough to make me laugh, which is always nice. I let him go, we get in the car, and drive away.

"How...was school today?" It takes him seven minutes to finally ask me that. Alfie does it in fifteen seconds flat, and that's only because he checks his mirrors before pulling away from the curb. Safety first. I shrug.

"Sucked mostly. But, I did win the fifteen-hundred-metre dash in gym." I pull the little athletics trophy out of my bag to show him. "I would've won javelin and high-jump too, if it wasn't for my hand." Bruce nods at regular beats.

"I have no doubts. What time did you finish in?"

"Five minutes and forty-two seconds. I know, it's not as fast as it could've been, but you know...I am like twelve." The big guy nods again and grunts to himself.

"You will only get faster. Doctor Thompkins is expecting us in twenty minutes. How are you feeling?"

"I'm...I'm good. Little nervous maybe, but okay." I tell him, tapping the trophy to settle myself down. He nods again.

"I will be right outside."

I stare at him hard. "Outside? You're not coming in with me?"

"I want you to be absolutely honest with Leslie. I do not believe you could do so with my presence. I don't want you to feel...restricted in what you tell her." I don't like the sound of that. I don't like not having a net. "Please come in with me? I don't want to do this alone."

"Dick, Leslie is a good listener. She doesn't shout and she doesn't bully. You will be fine. Trust me."

"No offence to her, but I don't know Doctor Thompkins. I know you. And I trust you. Please come in with me? Just for a little while?"

The way his jaw tenses in the aftermath is something that only ever spells bad news. My dad used to do it, Alfie does it when I break something or use the wrong fork for something at dinner, and Bruce does it when he really doesn't like something. He does it when he sees criminals breaking the law and when I ask him for emotional support. Like they're the same thing. I think he's going to bail on me again. We stop at a red light.

"If...you really think it will help you in this process...I suppose I could...join you for a time." He says without looking at me. It looks like it hurts him a lot, like so much more than hitting a wall.

"Promise?" I check. He sighs and nods.

"I promise."

I make a big play and reach over to squeeze his hand near the gearbox. He finally looks at me when I do. It's an awesome feeling that only gets better when he actually squeezes back. Then the light turns green and his whole focus goes back to the road ahead. Like a robot. It's actually kind of cool in a freaky way. Lots of things about him are like that. When we get downtown and park behind the clinic, I make sure I point out the obvious to him. He's leaving a car that's like half-a-million dollars in a place we know a gang of car jackers operate in. Even when I tell him that, he just shrugs. He says he'll buy another one if anything happens. Right...billionaire. I don't know how, but I always forget he's richer than ninety percent of the richest people on the planet. Richer than rich. Must be nice.

I don't know Leslie Thompkins very well. I've met her a couple of times, on patrol duties, but never during the day. It's weird going upstairs and into her office. She's nice, in a slightly strict schoolteacher sort of way. She says hello to me and Bruce, then invites him to wait outside.

"Is it okay if Bruce sits in on this, Doctor Thompkins?" I tell her when I think I see him move towards the door. She looks unimpressed, but nods.

"He can stay if you want him to, Richard. And please, call me Leslie during these sessions. This is not a test, I assure you." It feels like one and I haven't even sat down yet. I like how there isn't a crazy couch like in a shrink's office. Just a chair. I can handle a chair. "Bruce, why don't you take a seat over there so you're not a distraction?" Leslie adds gesturing to some part of the room behind me and my peripheral vision.

"Of course, Leslie." I hear the Boss-man say before he audibly parks his butt on a chair that doesn't sound up to the task. She gestures to the soft, squishy-looking chair on the left.

"Sit there please, Richard." I sit in the chair and find it a bit harder than I thought it was going to be. She sits in the one opposite it. She has a notepad and a pencil. I can tell she's already written something at the top of the page. I hope it isn't too bad. She smiles at me. "So, how are you feeling?"

It's not what I thought it would be. It's just talking. I tell her about the race, show her my trophy, and, when she asks about my balloon hand, I tell her about punching the wall. I didn't think I would tell her the truth, not with Bruce in the room – like he said – but I do. I tell her why I did it without being asked. I can't hear the big guy's chair at all now. I look over my shoulder to check he's still there. He is. He gestures for me to turn back to Leslie. When I do, she starts asking about my nightmares and how often I have them. I fudge the numbers a little.

"Maybe...once a week?" I say. It's more like four, sometimes five, but I don't want her to label me as crazy right off the bat. She doesn't buy it.

"Richard, why do I get the feeling you're not being honest with me? Does Bruce need to leave?" I shake my head. "Even if you were having nightmares every night, it wouldn't be uncommon. What you've suffered is a horrific loss. It would be strange if you _didn't_ have nightmares. Please tell me the truth." I look over my shoulder. "Richard, if he is too much of a distraction, we can ask him to wait outside." I shake my head again.

"Can he sit with me?" I ask her. I don't want to pretend I'm alone here. I don't like it. She doesn't look impressed. She writes something.

"If it will make you feel better, Richard, he can join us." Leslie says without looking up from the pad. In the time it takes Bruce to move from the back of the room, she writes something else, crosses it out and then writes something else. It makes me really nervous. When she looks up, she gives me another smile. "Better?" I look up to find the big guy looming over me.

"Can I sit in your lap?" I ask him, feeling pretty pathetic having said that. He looks at Leslie. I hear her sigh.

"If it means he'll be more settled, please do."

I stand up, he sits down and I park myself in his lap, something I've only done a couple of times. It feels so much more comfortable than the chair. I stopped doing this with my folks a couple of years ago when I got too big. But I can't crush Bruce. Nothing can crush Bruce. I feel his massive arm around my waist as I sit side-saddle and know he's got me. I tell Leslie the truth about the nightmares. I tell her everything about how bad things get late at night. She writes a lot, but I don't mind. Every time I get antsy, I rock slightly like I'm falling so that the Boss-man cinches up his grip on me. It instantly makes it better.

"You like being with Bruce, don't you?" She says after underlining something a few times. I nod.

"He's a good safety net. And he's comfy to sit on. You wanna try?" She smiles and, for the first time, I think it's for real. She shakes her head.

"No thank you, Richard."

"Um, you know, you can call me Dick, Leslie. You don't have to call me 'Richard' like I'm some English king or something."

"I didn't mean to put you on a pedestal. I just assumed only your friends called you Dick. I don't want to overstep the mark."

"You're Bruce's friend, right? Any friend of Bruce is a friend of mine. He's a really good judge of character." I look at the big guy for approval. He doesn't smile. He does squeeze my waist though, which is just as good. Leslie sighs and folds her arms.

"Sometimes I wonder if we really are friends." She's staring at him. He holds her gaze and it all starts getting a little frosty in here. But he doesn't clear his throat or reach for his tie this time. This situation isn't uncomfortable for him. Not even a little.

"Let's keep this professional, Leslie. Dick is your patient, not me."

"It's amazing though, isn't it? I've been trying to get you to seek any help whatsoever for almost twenty years. And nothing I ever said convinced you to attend therapy. But the instant this boy tells you he needs help, you bring him straight to me. How do you know I'm any good at delivering therapy when you've never experienced it for yourself?" She says with what even I know is sarcasm. But Bruce's jaw doesn't clench. He still isn't under stress here.

"It seems as though I am too much of a distraction for _you_ in this scenario, Leslie, not Dick. Do you need me to wait outside?" He replies with the same cool tone he seems to always address her with, respectful but distant. Leslie narrows her eyes and I know fireworks are coming.

"No. You should've brought him as soon you acquired formal custody. All you've done by delaying this process is exacerbated his problems. His punching the wall is your fault. Him sitting in your lap at _twelve_? Also, your fault. Instead of getting him the help he needed when he needed it, you taught him to throw punches and investigate crime scenes. Now he's regressing to the tendencies of younger children. What's next? Getting into bed with you when he has a nightmare? Wetting the bed?" I snap my fingers repeatedly to get her attention. She looks surprised.

"I stopped wetting the bed when I was six. He's right. You need to be professional or I'm walking out of here and I'm not coming back. So, do you want to take a crack at Bruce or help me deal with stuff?" I tell her. I barely feel it, but he squeezes me to say thank you.

"Well, Leslie?" The big man says to prompt her when she doesn't reply instantly. She clears her throat. She writes something down then nods.

"I apologise for getting off-topic. It won't happen again. It's not you, Dick. It's me. Your guardian is...a very frustrating man to work with." I smile at that. When I look over, Bruce is smiling too. Sometimes, I think he likes being stubborn. Sometimes I think he likes being a pain to those closest to him. Like Leslie.

"You love him though, right?" I say. She rolls her eyes and sighs so heavily I think I can feel the weight of it.

"Unfortunately, yes. Let's continue with your treatment though..."

The rest of the hour is more about me than anything between the big guy and his doctor. She prescribes me some anti-anxiety pills for kids. I don't know if they'll make a difference, but I'll try them out at least. We talk about my parents and how much I miss them. I think this is just a feeling-out session. She suggests focusing on happier times with them, instead of their last moments, which is pretty much what the sky-pilot at their funeral said in his eulogy. It's easier to say than to do. But I tell her I'll try that too. I'll try harder this time. When she asks for when I want to see her for round two. Bruce tells her a fortnight. Once we fill my prescription downstairs with the chemist, we leave.

"Huh." I say when seeing the car still has all its wheels. I watch him skirt around it a few times. He doesn't look concerned. "Anything missing?" I ask when he unlocks the doors.

"Only the hood ornament. It is replaceable...and..." He produces a small GPS tracker from his top coat pocket, "traceable. It might give us a lead on the auto thieves to pass to Commissioner Gordon." I grin at that. He never stops thinking. Even when I need him here, some part of his mind is somewhere else. I'd be peeved if it wasn't always for a noble cause. It's never something shallow. It's never buying a bigger yacht or what time he tees off on a private golf course. It's always the victims. Always putting someone else before himself. It reminds me of my folks, but on a much bigger scale. They cared about everyone at Haley's. He cares about everyone in _Gotham_.

When we get back to the house, he kills the engine in the garage and turns to me. "I'm sorry Leslie was not as professional as I told you she was. It's alright if Alfred accompanies you for your next appointment, yes?" I get where he's coming from. Whether he's Batman or Bruce Wayne, the guy is the focus of everyone's attention. It only gets worse if you actually know him, like Leslie. I nod.

"Does everybody who loves you eventually attack you for being who you are?" I ask him, hoping he doesn't think I'm being mean. He half-smiles.

"Yes."

"Do you think I'll get mad at you too?" He looks me in the eye.

"If you live here long enough, there will be little choice but to do so."

"And you're okay with that?"

"No. But I can't change, Dick."

"Would you? I mean, if you could, would you change?" I ask. He smirks, but shakes his head.

"No. I wouldn't be Batman if I did."

"What about just being Bruce Wayne? Isn't that enough?" I feel like I'm seriously toeing the line here now. Instead of adjusting his tie, he pulls it loose and unfastens the top button of his shirt. That's genuine, bona-fide stress right there. This is going to end very soon.

"No. Not anymore." He sighs. "Don't try to analyse me, Dick. Alfred has tried. It doesn't work." He gets out the car without looking at me again and goes into the house without waiting. I feel like I upset him. I hope not. He's the last guy I'd want to upset.

I wander down to the cave after dinner. Bruce wasn't there. I find him sat in the chair at the computer screen. He's already got his suit on, even though it's barely after eight. When I see the flashing light on the screen, I know it's his tracker for the hood ornament. It says the thieves have taken it into Park Row. His cowl is still down, but I can tell he's planning to pull it on any minute and leave.

"Hey." I say, even though I'm pretty sure he knows I'm behind his chair. He inclines his head without looking at me.

"Hello. How was dinner?"

"Lonely."

I hear him sigh. "I see. I had to prepare for this evening."

"You've literally just put that tracker up on the screen. I'm sorry I tried to analyse you, Bruce. You're too mad, right? I mean, you bailed before I could say thank you for taking me in the first place. I know it wasn't easy for you to sit in there with me. You're not peeved I sat in your lap, are you? I only did that because I was scared and..." He holds up a hand to stop me from narrating my whole life story, which is actually where this was heading.

"It was a poor choice of words on my part. You were only asking questions. I did not like the answers. Because they were true and because they might somehow encourage you not to seek help. I know you were scared. I'm not angry at anyone but myself. Understand?" That's hard to swallow in more ways than one. I call him on it straight away.

" _That's_ why you didn't come to dinner? That's dumb." He smiles at me.

"I know. Leslie said it best: I am a very frustrating man. Have you taken your medication this evening?"

"Yeah, I ate them with dinner."

"Good boy. I am going out now. You're welcome to sit and monitor my actions...if you had completed all your homework." He tells me rising to his feet. I suck my teeth.

"I got Math."

"Then do that and go to bed. It is only Tuesday night." He pulls his cowl up and Bruce Wayne disappears. He stands in front of me for a minute. It reminds me of the first time I saw him like this and got goose-bumps. I still have them now. And it's not because he's Batman. It's because he's human. It's hard to believe he's made of flesh and blood just like me. When he stands here like this, impossibly tall and muscled and confident with a jaw like steel and a stare like the grim reaper himself, how can you not be amazed he's as flawed and broken as everyone else? I nod my head.

"Leslie was wrong. The way I am isn't your fault. It's Zucco's." I say. Suddenly his gloved hand is on my cheek. Even through the mesh and latex, I can feel the power. And the guilt. Always feel the guilt.

"Maybe. Goodnight, Dick."

"Happy hunting, Batman."


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: Late-night in GCPD headquarters. Dick meets Harvey Bullock for the first time. After leaving the precinct, the Boy Wonder finds a gap in Bruce's defences that begs to be exploited. Dick's POV, set one week after previous instalment.**

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 **Enjoy.**

 **Twelve**

 **Underneath**

 **Dick**

When Bruce said he needed to talk to Commissioner Gordon before we went home, I thought that meant I was waiting in the car. But, apparently that actually means he and the Commissioner go into the privacy of his backroom office while I get to be stared at by everyone on duty in the bullpen. You'd think they'd never seen a kid in a cape and pixie shorts before. This one fat guy keeps eying me from across the room. I think he's looking at my butt and I don't like it. He looks like he hasn't shaved, or slept in days. I don't want to know how it works around here. I belong on a rooftop, or with my fist buried in some bad guy's face. I don't belong here. Plus, I need to pee...really badly. It only takes a couple of minutes before I'm practically dancing on the spot. And everybody is watching me suffer. The fat guy thumbs behind himself.

"Men's room is down the hall, kid. First door on the right. Go do something before you ruin the floor." I don't even nod at him. I just hurry down the corridor and practically fly to the urinal. My relief lasts all of ten seconds. As soon as I snap my shorts shut and turn around, there's three guys pretending to wash their hands. Wow. Should I charge these weirdos for the privilege of watching me christen their bathroom? I figure out how to make them leave me alone by showing them my gloves, both of which are still covered in other people's blood.

"I need to wash my hands, guys. Mind moving out the way, please?" They move quickly, after a little bit of eye-bulging. I wash my hands, sort of shift some blood off them, and then walk out. When I get back to the bullpen, the fat guy indicates the chair in front of his desk.

"Take a load off, kid. From the way they went in there, your boss and my boss ain't going anywhere for a while."

I don't really want to sit opposite this ugly, grizzled-looking guy for however long it takes Bruce to debrief tonight's playbook. If it takes an hour in the cave, it's only going to take more time without all the diagrams. But my legs are sore from kicking scum all night, so I take him up on the offer. It feels so good to sit on my ass. I let myself slump against the backrest and cup my hands on my stomach. The fat guy smiles at me. "Rough night, huh, kid?"

"I don't think this the right place to complain, Sir."

"Ah, you can gripe if you want, kid! We all do. Hey, you like Chips Ahoy?" He pulls a crumpled packet from a desk drawer and hands them to me. "It's good stuff this time of night."

"You're not trying to molest me, are you..." I squint at the placard on the edge of his desk, "Lieutenant Harvey Bullock?" Crud. A lieutenant? That's like...two above detective. I bite my tongue. Harvey doesn't look too fussed though. He smirks.

"Sorry, kid, you're not my type. But hey, I appreciate you saving my rookies tonight." He says to remind me of my big moment tonight – stopping four dirt bags from carving up two uniforms in a home invasion gone wrong. Bruce was there if I needed help, but I handled myself. I take his chips and shake my head.

"No, I'm sorry, Lieutenant Bullock. I shouldn't accuse you of being a pervert just because you were looking at my butt earlier." I tell him, tearing the packet open.

"Kid, you're running around a police station in underwear so tight, it's a miracle your balls haven't popped out. It's not exactly something I see every day, which is saying something in this town. He doesn't...make you dress like that, does he?" I roll my eyes beneath the mask, happy he can't see it. Again, with this shtick? When are people going to stop asking me if the big guy is a pervert? It's been weeks now. I sigh.

"No. I chose this outfit. And these are pixie shorts, not underwear. And they're not tight either. These babies are one-hundred percent wedgie and chafage proof. Plus, stab-proof and fire-resistant. I'm pretty sure they can stop twenty-two calibre round too. I think losing a testicle is worth not bleeding to death, don't you?" I ask, shoving a whole cookie into my mouth. Harvey grabs one for himself.

"Not before you've had a chance to use them, kid. You know Hitler only had one ball? Speaks volumes to me." He says, doing the same trick as me, although with the size of his mouth, it's not as impressive. I point a fresh cookie at him.

"Okay, first, there's no proof that's true. And second, that was a hypothetical worst-case scenario. Nobody is going to be in a position to wing me below the belt, not if I can help it."

Harvey responds to this by taking the cookie off me and pointing right back at me. "You don't think all the cops who've ever taken a slug in the old piccalilli haven't said the same thing? Be careful, kid. No matter what the TV says, you only get one of them." He punctuates this bit of wisdom by eating my cookie. "These are great, right?"

"They are, thank you. Can we talk about something else other than my junk?" I say digging out another cookie.

"Sure thing. Hey, so what's the deal with your boss? I thought he was a loner. How come he's got someone like you involved? You his son or something?" Harvey asks nabbing the last cookie and crumpling the packet at the same time.

I shake my head and bite my cookie. "No. I just...work with him. That's all."

"Does he work with a lot of eight-year-olds?" He asks demolishing his own cookie in one bite. I roll my eyes.

"I'm twelve." I tell him only for Harvey to hold his hands aloft in mock surrender.

He shrugs. "All kids look alike to me until they turn into juvie scumbags. I work homicide, not family court. So, has he got an army of twelve-year-olds in his basement or just you?"

"You think he kidnapped me? Is that it?" I check finishing off my snack and wiping the crumbs off my fingers before they get stuck to the blood. Harvey takes a swig of my coffee.

"Seems logical to me. What you did to those guys tonight, manhandling them like that, ain't something you learn at summer camp. That's months of training right there. I don't see how you can go to school and learn all that Kung-Fu crap at the same time, unless you don't." He says to prove he didn't get his detective badge by accident. Smart guy. Still, I need to correct him.

"It was Krav Maga and some Taekwondo, not Kung-Fu."

"Whatever, kid. If you don't want to tell me, that's fine. I figured he'd tell you to be all tight-lipped about it anyway."

"What do you think of him? Think he's a lunatic or a good guy lending a hand?" I ask to start a more serious conversation. Harvey grins at me.

"Your boss is a straight-up whack job. No doubt in my mind. But that doesn't mean I don't appreciate him getting involved. After some of the creeps who've crawled out of the woodwork in the last few years, I'm glad we've got him on our side. What do you think of my boss?"

"Commissioner Gordon is a great guy. I don't know him that well, but I can tell he really cares about this city. Pretty sure most people in his position would've given in by now."

"Yeah, that's the Comish, heart of gold and balls of steel. You know he used to be a marine? It shows."

We talk for something like the next half-hour about nothing in particular. He tries to get me to slip him a few personal details, but I stonewall him. When he says I should take off my gloves and wash them by hand, I tell him I'll do it later. I'm not leaving them fingerprints to play with. We don't talk any more shop. We argue about the Gotham Knights' season – I think they're playing okay, he thinks they've killed their play-off chances – and then argue about our favourite Krispy Kreme donuts. We both know a scary amount about donuts. By the time the two big men finally step back into the room, I think I really like Harvey Bullock. Sure, he looks like he's the face of a stay-away-from-strangers campaign, but he's fun to shoot the breeze with. I'm guessing he must be a solid cop too, judging by the amount of closed cases on his desk.

"I... don't normally do that." Bruce says when we're halfway home in the car. These are the first words I've heard him say since 'we're leaving'... twenty minutes ago. I filled the silence as best I could, giving him an oral report on Harvey Bullock and some kind of ode to donuts, but I burned out quickly. It turns out, talking to Harvey isn't as great a story as I thought.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Bossman." I tell him.

He clears his throat. "I don't usually go inside the precinct to discuss matters with Commissioner Gordon. However, this investigation was a priority that could not wait. I hope you did not feel too awkward waiting for us to finish speaking."

I frown at him, genuinely confused. "I've literally been talking about how cool it was to hang out with Lieutenant Bullock since we left. Did it sound like I felt awkward?"

"Ninety percent of what you have just said began with the words 'donut' or 'donuts'. If you made any reference to Lieutenant Bullock, it was lost on me, Robin." He says with a straight face. Then he cracks a smile that looks totally involuntary. I can't help smiling at that. I got through the walls. He actually has a sense of humour.

"I like donuts." I tell him. He nods.

"And Chips Ahoy, it seems."

"Were you spying on me?"

"I may have glanced through the blinds once or twice. Lieutenant Bullock appears to have quite a cache in his desk."

"He's definitely a stress-eater. Good cop though."

"Lieutenant Bullock is an exemplary detective. His rank is thoroughly deserved."

"I could've just waited in the car, you know. You didn't have to pull me inside the precinct. I wouldn't have been offended, Batman." I say with a shrug. His smile fades out.

"Please do not take this the wrong way, but I feel better when I can keep an eye on you."

"Because I'm a rookie?"

"Because you're twelve." He says, briefly turning his head in my direction, "I haven't forgotten."

He's talking about me punching a wall at stupid-o-clock in the morning and going to see Leslie for some counselling. My hand feels way better now. It's not purple anymore either, so that's a great bonus after only six days on the side-lines. Alfie says it's because of how fit I am. Everything heals quicker when you're fit apparently. If that's true, Bruce must be the fittest man on the planet.

"Me neither."

"The correct expression should be 'neither have I'. Your other father would not impressed." He says to remind me he can still be a bit of an ass, even when things are getting heavy. I just nod.

"Got it."

We get back to the cave ten minutes later. As soon as he kills the engine, I unfasten my seatbelt and prepare to make my exit. His hand is on my shoulder before I can open the door.

"Let me see your hand, please." He says as I sit back down. I take off my glove and show him that what was an injury is now back to being a weapon. He takes it in his and examines it carefully. He nods. "You have excellent powers of recovery. How does it feel after tonight's activity?" He asks, still holding it. I shrug.

"Yeah, okay, I guess. I think I might have bruised a knuckle or two knocking that last guy down, but it's good. Hey, can I see your face?"

"Why?"

"I saw that lump of debris hit you. I just want to check." I tell him honestly. He got absolutely clocked by that hunk of concrete, hit him square in the eye. I thought he might go down, but he shook it off within a second. Facing down four guys, he had to ignore it. Now he doesn't have to. I see his jaw clench.

"Do not concern yourself, Dick. Alfred can check."

"We're partners. I haven't forgotten I'm only twelve either. That doesn't mean I don't want to make sure you're okay too. Come on, show me the damage." I tell him taking my domino mask off. He sighs before reluctantly pulling his cowl back. His left eye is badly bloodshot. I think I actually gasp when I see it. I take off my other glove and get onto my knees to get a better look. "Ouch." I say putting my hands on either side of his face, "that's gonna leave some mark. Does it hurt much?"

"It stings, but not excessively. I believe the impact has caused no permanent damage."

"Yeah, you would say that though." I say, taking the time to examine his face in greater detail, now it's not two feet above my head. Considering what he does night after night, his face is in amazing shape. His skin gets a little sandpapery around his jaw, but the rest of it is weirdly smooth, like it's been waxed. I must lose track of time because when I look back at his eyes, he's frowning at me. "Never had a kid feel your face, Boss-man?" I ask slowly taking my fingers off it.

"Not that I can recall. Is it simple curiosity?"

"I don't know what it is. I just know I like it. Hey, don't run for the hills, okay? I'm going to hug you now, make you feel better about getting hurt. This is something kids are really good at. Got it?" I make sure I telegraph what's coming next. No more ambushing him on the affection front. I think I get him now. He can only open up in spurts. If you push him too much or too long, he shuts you down and then kicks you out. If you only prod him once in a while, like with the sleepover or the shrink thing, and then give him like a week to breathe, I figure he'll be cooler about it all. It's been a week, so he should be game for this.

He looks wary. "Must I hug you in return?" He asks to slightly stab me in the heart. I move past it.

"Not if you don't want to. But, I'd like it if you did." I tell him before opening my arms and moving slowly towards him. He doesn't move an inch, even when I stick my chin and his shoulder and stupidly try to clasp my hands together behind his grand-piano wide back. It must look awkward, because it feels really awkward to me and I'm an expert at giving kick-ass hugs to people. After a couple of minutes of this, I hear him sigh and think he's about to break it off as a failure. Instead he raises his arms to bump mine up to his neck and then easily wraps his around my back. I feel my spine tingle when he rests his head against mine and sighs again.

Whoa.

"It does really hurt." He tells me lethargically without breaking his hold on me. I chance my arm and ruffle the back of his hair like he does to me sometimes.

"Alfie will sort you out." I say, kind of wishing this could go on forever. I've literally never felt this close to him before. It's crazy to experience this side of him at work. We're still in uniform, still in the car, and he's HUGGING me. And it is a damn good hug I'm getting here.

"I know. The investigation was important though. If I did not discuss the particulars there and then, things could take a very bad turn." He says before I feel him begin to loosen his grip. Before I can think about stopping him, we're separate again and he's opening his door to leave. "Come on. You need to get to bed as soon as possible." And just like that, he's gone, off across the vehicle park towards Alfie and somewhere feelings aren't important. I'd be upset if I wasn't still psyched about that hug. I can still feel the freakish strength of his arms across my back as I pick up my gloves and mask. I grin to myself as I watch him walk slower than normal so I can catch up. I nod.

"Yeah, right behind you."


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: Bruce's POV. Dick's thirteenth birthday party is approaching. Guess who still needs to organise it? Please read and review.**

 **Enjoy.**

 **Thirteen**

 **Bruce**

I have scoured the entire building and determined there are only six assailants and twelve hostages to contend with. All six assailants are armed with semi-automatic weapons, but lack any kind of protective clothing, such as bulletproof vests or helmets. Judging from their anxious movements and uncomfortable expressions, they did not expect trouble during their operation. These hostages have been seized by necessity instead of design. They likely envisioned entering the building, acquiring what was sought, and then exiting in quick succession. However, they have now been trapped by a police cordon and hard-headed negotiation tactics for almost nine hours.

Jim did not call me until the sixth hour of the siege. He made sure to exhaust all other avenues available to him before drafting my services. After they executed two people to bring their hostage count from fourteen to twelve, my presence became necessary. As such, I am already inside the building and currently making noise on the floor above them to encourage some separation in the group. As hoped, one of the assailants has been sent to investigate. I incapacitate them without any shots fired.

I do not recognise the gunman. I am of the opinion that I have never encountered him before, meaning that perhaps I have never encountered any of the six assailants inside the building. Their tactics may prove...unorthodox as a consequence. I note that my unconscious companion does not have a radio or communicative device on his person, not even a mobile phone. A search of his pockets does not yield much either to aid in identification. There is a wallet, but it only contains cash. I decide to bind his arms and legs, but do not gag him. Perhaps his cries may prove strategically useful later. I move down the stairs he must have used to access this floor.

The door at the base of the stairs is not guarded. This is to be expected with such a small force available. It allows me to manoeuvre into the adjacent corridor and then into position beside the room where thermal imaging and GCPD surveillance has determined the hostages are being held. A brief scan using my own thermal goggles proves them to be correct.

All five remaining gunmen are stood in vicinity of two hostages. A lone pair of heat signatures in a distant corner of the room obviously belong to the individual I disabled. All assailants seem to have eyes on everyone else in the space, due to the manner in which they have positioned themselves and their hostages. The gunman I incapacitated was not masked. I do not believe he will prove to be an exception in this scenario.

It might be prudent to draw out another assailant before attempting to resolve the situation. I am mindful of quick executions being a realistic possibility, given what has already transpired. Since they do not appear to be in radio contact with one another, I doubt any of them will suspect something is wrong with their colleague's prolonged absence. Or perhaps their agitation and fear will manifest itself into blind panic. Either way, I must act quickly to stop any further violence.

I decide to take a risk by not luring another outside the room. Instead, I ready a flash grenade and prepare to kick through the door. I estimate it will take roughly eight to ten seconds to secure the hostages from harm. That should prove fast enough to curtail any chance of resistance. The door is booted open at the precise moment the grenade detonates to simultaneously surprise and disorientate everyone inside. Special lenses built into the cowl prevent me from suffering the same temporary blindness the others are experiencing. Noise cancelling earbuds also integrated into the cowl's design account for the deafening bang that follows the flash.

What has taken hours to develop is over in less than twelve seconds. The distance between gunman and their hostages make them easier to take down than if grouped. With space to work, I am able to throw more power into my strikes and gain greater momentum when transitioning between targets. The result is that four of them fall in eight seconds without pulling a trigger. The fifth fires a burst at my approximate location, only to miss and hit the wall behind. Fortunately, all the hostages had the common sense to lie flat on the floor when the flash went off, meaning nobody was hurt by the stray fire. The time to dodge the burst and then incapacitate the final target accounts for the additional seconds.

Thirty seconds later, the effects of the flash grenade have subsided enough for the hostages to recognise my presence and the absence of an immediate threat to life. I am in the midst of securing the final gunman in preparation for arrest and detainment when someone speaks from behind me.

"You have a kid, don't you?"

I turn to find myself confronted by a distressed-looking man only a few years older than I am. I stand up and watch him flinch slightly.

"In a sense. Robin is my partner, not my son." I reply in a slight growl that I do not wish to be aggressive. These people, and this man, have clearly endured enough trauma for one night. The man musters a smile and nods.

"Sure he's not. I just asked because I think you'll understand when I say thanks. For helping me go home to my family. My kids wouldn't understand if I didn't come home tonight." He tells me with genuine appreciation for my efforts. I incline my head.

"I only wish I had come sooner. Maybe then, your colleagues would have been alive." I respond. He shakes his head.

"You're only one man. Most people think there's an army of you running around in Gotham, because of how much crime you stop, but I know better. You did what you could, but nobody's going to blame you for what these monsters did to Andy and Carol."

"You and your colleagues should now make your way to the exit to allow GCPD officers to enter the premises and detain the suspects." I say before turning my back on him and leaving the building via the roof. I spot the snipers situated on rooftops opposite the building instantly. None of them open fire. The GCPD helicopter above me only shines its spotlight for a moment before switching it off. Either they are beginning to respect me, or Jim Gordon has given them explicit instructions not to treat me as hostile. It does not matter at this time. All that matters is that the hostages are safe and I can return home without engineering an escape. Factoring in patrol prior to this situation, it has been a very long night.

My return to the cave is met by Alfred. He is holding a dinner tray with a bell-shaped lid as I approach the command centre. This is strange because I had dinner prior to departing for the night. Just as I am telling myself the old man is not going to be theatrical or dramatic, he lifts the lid to reveal two balloons, a cone-shaped party hat and what appears to be a birthday invitation. The balloons, obviously filled with helium since they are now floating three feet in the air and tethered to the tray, have the number thirteen on them. He says nothing, even when I stand directly in front of him.

I take hold of the invitation and read the message inside:

 _You are cordially invited to plan Richard John Grayson's thirteenth birthday party!_

 _Although this occasion was mentioned to you some four months ago, you have thus far failed to give any kind of direction._

 _As a consequence, you now have four days to plan and deliver the party expected of a man with your means._

 _Do not ask Alfred Pennyworth to assist you, as he is tired of your ridiculous nature and complete lack of soul..._

I do not read the remainder. The opening lines of the message are clear enough. I was certain I had another month to make such arrangements. I place the invitation back on the tray. Alfred's eyes silently ask if I understand the nature of my task. I respond my throwing a batarang that bursts both balloons. The old man responds to this by setting the tray down, picking up the party hat and indicating for me to pull back my cowl. I know he intends to force this indignity on my head. I emit a sigh.

"I will make the arrangements." I say motioning for him to dispense with the hat. He narrows his eyes.

"How? You don't even know what sort of party he wants."

"Yes, I do."

"Then enlighten me."

"He wants a bowling party followed by a meal at KFC with twenty of his friends."

"Incorrect, Master Bruce. He wants a meal at Pizza Hut, with sixteen of his friends, followed by a trip to the cinema."

"Wrong. He wanted that as of last month. This month, he wants the bowling party and KFC, plus an expanded guest list." I counter, knowing I possess the most accurate intelligence on the boy's fancies and the most current information. The boy will literally not stop talking about his birthday, no matter what we are doing. Alfred looks less than impressed.

"If you have been listening to him, then why has it taken me to remind you the event is only four days away?"

"Who says I was not aware of the timescale? I have been busy these past weeks, old friend."

"Too busy to book a bowling alley on the required date? A five-minute task, Sir?"

"The last time I checked, Alfred, I was the richest man in Gotham. If needs be, I will buy the bowling alley to ensure the boy has a booking."

"Yes, of course, Sir. Such elitist behaviour is precisely what Master Dick craves. What will you do for an encore? Buy him an entire city to play in?"

I am tired of arguing with the old man. I do not possess the energy to debate this triviality further. I gladly turn my back on him and head towards the armoury. He shadows me. He stands in silent judgment of me as I divest myself of my ancillaries and the suit in favour of my usual dressing gown and slippers. As soon as I step back into the cave, Alfred places the hat on my head. I let it rest there whilst moving towards the stairs. The old man takes hold of my forearm and looks at me earnestly.

"I know birthdays have not been important to you since your parents passed. I understand you do not enjoy festivities of any kind. But this is important to the lad. It is his first birthday without them. He needs reassurance that he belongs here, and that he is loved. Please don't take this the wrong way, but I don't want him to turn into you, Master Bruce. I like him the way he is."

Perhaps a remark like that would cut another person deep. I do not take offence to his wishes. I like Dick the way he is too. I suppose I have been remiss in my duties as his legal guardian lately. There have been many late nights of solo patrolling that have isolated him from me somewhat. I am only thinking of his health and scholastic career. I take the hat off my head and regard it with a smile.

"He would love these hats I think, especially if all his guests were required to wear one."

"Yes, there is something fun about seeing teenagers refusing to accept their immaturity, even at a birthday party. I have a large batch of hats in the kitchen."

"I trust you have more balloons as well?"

"Of course, Master Bruce. Plenty of helium too."

"Good. I will do what needs to be done tomorrow morning, old friend. Until then, please excuse me." I say gently escaping his grasp and beginning the ascent to the library. I pause. "I'm sorry about bursting your balloons, Alfred."

"No, you are not. You have always enjoyed popping balloons. It is good to know that some things about you have not changed in the last twenty years." The old man says with a smile that lets me know we are not at loggerheads with one another, merely annoyed at the other's stubborn nature. I incline my head.

"Goodnight, Alfred."

"Goodnight, Master Bruce."

It is shortly after eight in the morning on Saturday. I have come downstairs to find the boy sat cross-legged on the living room sofa, watching media coverage of the hostage crisis whilst slurping milk and Coco Pops from a bowl. I do not believe he has even used his spoon which lies prone on the coffee table in front of him. I round the vacant side of the sofa and invite myself to sit beside him. My presence is met with the sunniest of smiles from my companion.

"Hey, big guy. Looks like you had some night."

"It was...simpler than I had anticipated. How was your evening with Jeremy?"

"It was great. We went ice-skating and then just chilled out and watched movies at his house with a ton of cookie dough ice cream. His mom was really cool about it all."

"I am glad you enjoyed yourself. Alfred and I would like to check something with you, regarding your birthday plans..."

"Yeah, bowling alley and KFC still. I haven't changed my mind this week. That's definitely what I want to happen."

"Have all your guests received invites?"

"Yeah, I took care of that junk last week. I kept it to twenty like you said, and only the good ones, nobody weird." The boy informs me whilst slurping his cereal again. I tap him lightly on the back of the head with his forgotten spoon.

"You are beginning to make dents in your second decade, use a spoon to eat cereal, like a human being instead of a chimp." I caution him, offering the spoon for him to make use of. He stares at his bowl and shrugs.

"There's only milk left now. Do I still need to use a spoon?"

"Yes. Treat it like you would soup."

"But I just drink soup too."

"Not in this house you don't. Whenever we have bisque or soup as a starter, I always observe you using a spoon correctly. Alfred would become ill if you engaged in slurping practices at the dinner table." I say poking him in the ribs with the spoon. He stifles a giggle and takes the spoon.

"Fine. But I'm going to treat this as a challenge rather than a rule, like trying to eat a steak with chopsticks."

"That sounds particularly vexing. Have you attempted such a feat before?"

"Yeah. I've also eaten soup with a fork before too. If people say it's impossible, I have to at least try to prove them wrong." He says before chuckling. "My mom said you couldn't eat cake with a straw when I was seven. So, I spent almost two hours trying to do just that. Eventually I got so light-headed I passed out in the cake. My dad took a picture and gave it to Mr Haley as a birthday present. I think he still has framed on the wall of his train car. He told me I was everything fun about the circus. It was...it was really nice to hear him say that." The boy says, his voice getting a little wistful towards the close of his speech. I put a hand on his shoulder and squeeze.

"He was right." I tell him with a smile. Dick momentarily leans his head against my side before pulling it back.

"Thanks. Hey, can I ask you something? It's...kind of personal, so, if you don't want to answer, that's cool." He says with a trace more apprehension than usual. I frown in a mixture of surprise and curiosity before nodding.

"Certainly." I say, letting my hand slip off his shoulder and back into my lap. The boy sets the bowl down on the coffee table before putting a hand on his chin and staring up into space. He is considering how to broach what he must think is a delicate or sensitive issue. I cannot imagine what topic he wishes to discuss. After almost two minutes, he speaks.

"Okay, so, I've got...stuff going on downstairs. Like, a few months ago, I didn't have any hair, and now it kind of looks like I've got a moustache above my junk. So, what I wanted to know was...how old were you when...your..." Dick seems to have something of an epiphany, shakes his head and just grins sheepishly. "How old were you when you got pubes? I just...want to know if it's normal to have like a ton of them above your...penis and only a few on your balls at my age. I'm kind of...getting self-conscious about it, a little. Like...in the showers at school and stuff."

I cannot suppress a smirk at being ambushed with this avenue of conversation from someone I consider to be too confident in himself on occasion. His sudden dearth of confidence is somewhat endearing by comparison. Dick offers up a nervous laugh.

"That's not a dumb question, is it? I'm not like an idiot. I've had Sex Ed classes and I know puberty is normal and weird, but I know you'll give me a straight answer. I mean, if you need to, I can show you what I'm yammering about if you think it'd help..." I put a hand over the boy's before he can pull open the waistband of his pyjama bottoms.

"I do not need to see anything below your waist, Dick, least of all your genitals." I assure him before releasing my grip on it. Out of all the questions this boy has asked in recent weeks, I find this one easy to answer since it is a matter of biology rather than anything more complex. "In answer to your question, I started to develop secondary sex characteristics at around your age, including pubic hair. What you have described is perfectly normal for a boy of your age and you should not be self-conscious. I would imagine all your friends are experiencing similar phenomena in their own bodies and are just as uncertain. Satisfied?"

Dick nods enthusiastically. "Yeah. I knew Alfie was wrong when he said I'd never get you to talk about stuff like this without a carjack to pry your jaws open. But I know you better than he thinks I do. I know how to get you to open up without feeling like I'm asking too much."

I rest my chin on my hand. "Do you?"

"Yes, I do. If you've had a good night, you'll talk about almost anything. If you've had a crappy night, you'll clam up for a week. I checked the news this morning to make sure you were in a good mood. They said you rescued twelve out of fourteen in the end. And the two that died got killed before you got there, so really you saved everybody you could. If that doesn't put you in a good enough mood to discuss puberty problems, nothing will. I was so happy you had a good night. I've been wanting to ask you about that for two weeks now." He admits, almost bouncing on the sofa cushions and clearly pleased with himself. I am curious though.

"Why did you not simply confer with Alfred on the matter?"

"Aside from the fact he probably doesn't remember his childhood now? I told you, if someone says something's impossible, I have to at least try to prove them wrong. Alfie said it was impossible to talk to you about this, because you want to be a hands-off guardian. I know better. Alfie didn't see you cuddle me Howie slept over. He didn't see you give me a confidence boost in Leslie Thompkins' office and he definitely didn't see you let me hug you better in the car after a rough patrol. So, he doesn't know that 'hands-off' is a very loose term with you."

"How loose?"

Dick responds to this vague invitation to test my limits by uncrossing his legs turning his back to my right side and then resting against it. He proceeds to hook my right arm across his chest so that it rests just under his armpits, retrieves his bowl of milk and then begins to drink it like soup. "Is this uncomfortable for you, being this close to me in daylight?" He asks blowing on his cold milk before sipping it in a fashion I would describe as haughty, especially when raising his little finger. He is making fun of what I deem to be a very ordinary rule of etiquette. Considering that only a month or so ago he was sat practically naked in my lap, save for my dressing gown, this is surprisingly tame. I would definitely welcome a de-escalation of affectionate behaviour from the boy. If he would settle for this instead of anything as grand as a hug, I would welcome it.

"I have no qualms being close to you, Dick. It just never escapes my mind that you are someone else's child and that I should not try to replace your parents. I would consider it...disrespectful."

"Last month you said you were happy I thought of you as my dad."

"I know. Looking back however, I feel as though I... overstepped the mark in that respect."

"You know, I think I did too? I keep forgetting you're Batman for a reason. That's why I backed off after the therapy session. I could see I was pushing you too far. I just...I really want to be close to you. I... I really like you, Bruce. I feel safe when I'm with you. I don't feel like that with anyone else, even Alfie."

I can tell just from the tone of his voice that this statement is hard for him to say aloud. I understand why. Admitting how much you care for someone else, how happy you are in their company, is always a double-edged sword. If that other person does not feel the same way, not only have you shown them where to hurt you, but also _how_ to hurt you best. It is hard enough for women to admit such vulnerabilities to one another, much less a boy to a man he regards so highly. I don't want to admit the truth to him at this stage. If he is scared of being hurt by me, I am doubly so of being scorned by him.

The truth is I love him. I love this child as if he were my own. And that terrifies me. Which is why I do not tell him my feelings. I do not want to expose frailties that can be exploited. I do not want to be manipulated, by him or anyone else. Because as soon as you admit you have something worth losing, it is invariably taken from you, often in harrowing circumstances. I ruffle his hair with my other hand, mindful not to linger too long.

"Tell me where you would like to go bowling. I want to book the lanes today." I say to change the subject altogether and steer us back into lighter issues. He sighs, rests the near empty bowl in his lap and then squeezes my right arm with both hands.

"Andy's Bowling Plaza. It's on..."

"Westfield Drive. I know the establishment. My parents took me there when I was six or seven."

"Were you any good?"

"I knocked down one or two pins without my mother's help. However, my final score of eighty was somewhat exaggerated by their definition of what constituted a strike."

"And what's your average now?"

"I would not call it an average, given I have only bowled half-a-dozen games since that day, but I usually post something above two-hundred-and-thirty."

"My average is one-hundred-and-twenty. I'm pretty sure I'll win on Tuesday."

"So long as you do not showboat too much, I imagine everyone will have a good time regardless."

"I promise I'll be good. And then I want to go to the KFC across the street afterwards, then come back to the house for cake...please." He adds the final word in what I believe to be his sweetest and 'cutest' tone of voice. Amazingly, he believes he is pushing the boat out on his party by wanting a cake-cutting ceremony. I try to answer pragmatically.

"I don't quite know how Alfred is supposed to transport twenty children back to the house. I would not want to inconvenience anyone's parents on a school night."

"Rent a limo? Everyone would love that."

"Would _you_ like that?"

"Yeah, it'd be nice. And then, everyone's parents could pick them up from here at...like ten or something. That's doable, right, Boss-man?"

"You can...ask for more if you like, Dick. I know this birthday is important to you."

"As long as you promise to be around for at least the cake-cutting ceremony, bowling and KFC are enough for me."

"And you aren't going to change your mind tomorrow, are you? Want a bounce-house or something of that nature?" I check only for the boy to scoff in something that almost hints of offence at the suggestion.

"Even I'm too old for bounce-houses, Bruce. Bowling, KFC and cake. That's my dream for number thirteen." Dick declares confidently. I dare to ruffle his hair once again to punctuate my response.

"Then consider it done."

We lapse into silence as the news broadcast depicts thermal imaging footage of the moment I can incapacitated all assailants and rescued the hostages. I hear Dick smirk as the anchor voiceover declares the footage one of the most unbelievable sequences he has ever seen caught on film. "Must be weird for you, going from saving hostages to planning a kid's birthday party."

"Either is preferable to you exposing yourself to me." I say with a smile I cannot stop. Dick laughs.

"Yeah, I'm sorry about that. I really was worried about it though. I totally would've shown you if you thought it was a good idea."

"Anything of that nature, kindly take to Alfred before resorting to me. Regardless of what tabloids may suggest, I did not adopt you for sexual exploitation." I tell him as he sinks deeper into my side. It seems we will be watching television together for some time. He pats my arm.

"I know, big man, I know."


End file.
